


Depth

by Vishihan



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Merformers, Multi, Sirenformers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vishihan/pseuds/Vishihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, she thought the being on the rocks was a stranded two-legger who was doomed to die in the harsh light and sharp jagged towering coast line of the archipelago.  Then the figure sang of deep mournful longing that contained no words, dry and pitchy in thin air that could not give the proper deep vibrations of kin song that the waves bolstered and Tailgate needed to know who.</p>
<p>Based on the artwork of Uniformshark</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Merformers](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/88280) by Uniformshark. 



Whirl had gotten under Tailgate’s skin. In truth, Whirl got under nearly everyone in the pod’s skin some way or another. But this time, Whirl had dragged back part of a two-legger boat. Boards and some sort of floating appeal that two-leggers latched across their chests and she had only wanted to touch it, maybe try it on. It was bright orange, with shiny patches and harmless despite the vivid warning colors it bore. 

Whirl had destroyed it, the mantis shrimp had grinned then tore the device into floating chunks of white stuff. Ultra Magnus had bellowed and Rodimus was no help and Cyclonus’s reaction was a rather disdained snort. Tailgate hadn’t even been allowed to capture and touch the floating debris before Cyclonus had gasp her hand and taken her off and Ultra Magnus had begun ranting about hazards and she just wanted to touch. 

So, she had set off to find her own two-legged thing. If Whirl could find one, she could to. It just ended up being a lot harder than Tailgate thought it would be. How far had Whirl had to swim to find the wreck? Maybe to the archipelago? The island chain was mainly rocky, mixed with atolls and cays. She swam out and found pieces of wreck littering the first few atolls of the archipelago, clinging to the coral bowls. Globs of oil and other caustic thing she avoided in wide arches. And then she saw the shape. 

At first, she thought the being on the rocks was a stranded two-legger who was doomed to die in the harsh light and sharp jagged towering coast line of that particular island of the archipelago. The dark figured hunched on a rock, legs drawn close to its chest. It was sad and she slowly approached, wishing to help. 

The figure moved, legs sliding into the water. Back straightening, head tossed back as if in grief and she stared, watching the movement in awe. Then the figure sang of deep mournful longing that contained no words, dry and pitchy in thin air that could not give the proper deep vibrations of kin song that the waves bolstered and Tailgate needed to know who. 

She approached slowly, noticing that the feet in the water were webbed, digits longer then a two-leggers. That the skin was smooth, black with wide blue fins. Tendrils, deep blue that soften to lighter sky and glowed blazing white at the ends. Jellyfish? She had never meet a jellyfish kin before. 

The strange kin slid down, tendrils rising in a bloom of blues and whites as the ocean buoyant and forgiving supported them. Tailgate was captivated as they flexed, color rippling down the strands like cephalopods camouflage and she nearly missed the kin move. 

Tailgate could not miss the song as it started over again, voice rich and heartbreakingly lonely, reaching a depth in her bones that those above the air couldn’t replicate. A mourning song, echoing around her as the kin swam in tight circles, tendrils curling like lures and eye-catchingly dazzles. Her eyes slid off the kin’s body, coming again and again to the swirling lengths. 

Then the kin stopped, snapped still, tendrils a swirling mass like an eddy and parted, sliding apart nearly. The kin was slender, blue eyes glowing in a bright red face, tendrils curling and sliding back into a mass of blue white behind him. Full lips curled in a sharp smile, and Tailgate reached out to trace the scar tissue that rose in mounds, two diagonal from the corner of their nose to chin, partially running over the full lips. 

“Are you always this familiar?” The kin questioned and reached out, pressing a fingertip to Tailgate’s nose and shift, head craning and grinned. Needle teeth, clean and sharp, met to tear away flesh from bones, break bones. 

They gave a delicate sound, gills fluttering and the tendrils were suddenly in Tailgate’s face, and she froze as they brushed, knowing that they were covered with tiny stinging cells, eyes closing tight to keep from getting stung. 

She didn’t know how long she had stayed frozen, breathing slow and trying to not quiver. When she opened them, the other kin was gone.


	2. Faculty for the Station of Ocean Exploration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knockout muses on certain life choices, such as, when will he ever find a all natural sunscreen that does not run?
> 
>  
> 
> Short chapter is short, for muse came and went.

The cay the Station had been built on was of decent size, 40 acres of land, sandy beaches, and a coral reef filled with brightly colored fish. It should be any marine biologist or oceanographer or various other professions that dealt with the oceans wet dream. 

Knockout was not any of those. A medical doctor, an automobile enthusiast, and with a deep passion for the realm of fashion, all that was horribly difficult to access on an island in the middle of nowhere. They would not let him have any sort of vehicle on the island outside of a bicycle. Peddle power was beneath him, he would rather walk then suffer the indignity of wearing a helmet. So, in order to catch up on the ongoing of the civilized world, he volunteered to pick up the various necessities from the mainland. 

And often among the necessities was private requests from everyone else that worked at the station to pick up things they could not be bothered with personally to pick up. Knockout did not terribly mind picking them up for his fellow graduates, even if they occasionally bitched about his cutthroat policy of picking up the supplies of whoever tipped him graciously first. 

He only had so much time after all. The captain of the boat was not the going to wait for him. Knockout had certainly learned that lessons after the first time he had showed up, loaded with packages and saw the boat cheerfully chugging along halfway out of the port. 

So after he signed for the packages at the docks, went and signed for the held mail at the tiny post office, and used the time allotted to pick up the list of things asked for, 90% of the time arranged by whoever was tipping him the most. Occasionally he arranged it by who ever wanted things that corresponded with things he also wanted. 

Such as fresh fruit and the latest celebrity gossip rags. High SPF sunscreens, he liked thinksport though finding the best an all-natural sunscreen was still ongoing hunt. The occasional piece of dark chocolate, though that was more for Breakdown then for him. He had to keep his partner well fed.


	3. Sea Witches and Blue Holes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes sacrifices are required to fuel a shift that could save hundred.  
> It doesn't mean they aren't mourned.

Perhaps it had been destiny that they spilled out from one universe into another in pitch darkness and chilling oxygen starve depths. He had thought the spell had failed, that his lovers sacrifice had been in vain, that he should die in a moment of delirium and heartache and maybe they would be reunited as spilling sea foam. 

Oil Slick had bit him like a vengeful fanged monstrous goddess of cruel rationality. Hard enough to draw ichor and kick started the primal part of his brain. Tendrils had flair out, armed and spilling from his back and hips and brushed against not a wall but magic. 

Magic that reacted to the remnants of the great work, slick like oil spills mixed with ichor, repressive and syrupy heaviness that pressed on him. Oil Slick eyes glowed in the darkness, multiplied by the misleading eyespots higher on her head, wide and casting light and she had dove into the oppressive mixture with a flick of her tail. He had followed.

The narrow tunnel had branched into a wide chamber, an unnatural rounded pearl of space and as holey as dead corals. Half dead glow stones sunk in recesses cast eerie flickering light. 

Oil Slick shrugged, slender shoulders rising like blades before swimming up and over, twisting into a tight space. She disturbed bits of sand and tiny creatures in her wake, caudal fin disappearing with a final wave. 

Tracks settled on the porous floor, and picked up one of the smooth stones with his lower left hand and passed it to his upper right. He held it up, looking where the lures had been pressed and coaxed to merge into one fist sized stone. Ichor trailed in a plume of red from his injured wrist and he could taste it briefly before the current pulled it away. 

He tried to date the glow stone, attempted to think of the vicious looking fish the lures were harvested from in the dark sunless depths. Tracks wasn’t a light witch, the care and creation of glow stones had never caught his fancy. He held it high and let it drop, watching it plummet and crack against a sharp edge, spilling out a luminous cloud. 

He scooped another up, lobbing the clouding stone into a wall and shivered, watching it crack and spill open. A third, a fourth, and something snapped, all four hands searching for stones, breaking the crystal clear shells and releasing the insides. Until the water was choked with the inside of glow stones and it congregated on his skin and his gills ached with filtering the water. 

He shuddered, legs giving up, breaking the smooth skin of his legs on the sharp corners of the porous stone, hunched over in misery, luminous bacteria and ichor drifting over him as he mourned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sirens are magic users and tend to specialize in one aspect. It is an ingrained part of the culture to find a aspect in magic to focus on. Many together will cast great works. 
> 
> Glow witches harvest angler fish lures and tend to the luminescent bacteria creating glow stones to light up dwelling places such as tunnels and caves and gather them in nets to use as lanterns for night hunting.


	4. Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should have been a dead and done with. When the strange kin had reached out with tentacles that could have left her paralyzed and gasping, letting them slid over her face so they could disappeared into the depths. Certainly if she had common sense, she would not have searched over and over and watch them as they sang to sky and waves and poured out their grief, wrung dry like sun shriven kelp.

Tailgate slipped away from the pod. She was certain that her mate was concern, she felt his red eyes linger as she slowed watching the pod continue on, boisterous voices chattering. Cyclonus had let her slip off and Tailgate knew she needed to tell him. She really did… but she didn’t want to see the strange kin shredded for their mishaps. 

They had continued to appear at the rocky island to sing, voice being torn away from the air. Occasionally she spotted them in the atolls, pulling away blades from kelp strands and shredded them meticulously, holding the strands in their lower arms as the uppers tore then in half and strip them again, and again. She slipped away and searched and the night skies had once again been graced with light, the lunar disk half full and there was a weight to the time she sulked off and stared. 

Today they were at one of the atolls, hands combing over coral, and she watch fascinated as all four hands moved, aided with the thicker furled blue tendrils in coaxing out snails from recesses. She sighed, watching the strange kin work, walking along the sandy bottom, curling blue flexible muscle into small spaces and pulling them out. 

They were fascinating. They were Dangerous. Cyclonus wasn’t here to protect her or keep her from getting too close, and Tailgate wanted to get closer and perhaps grab one of the slender floating tendrils and see how smooth they truly were. Which would be very, very rude, but she truly wanted to anger her fingers in them, see if they could curl and grip.

Tailgate watched as they found and discarded snails, searching till they found one with a spiny shell and continued to tease and prod the mollusk until it spat a cloud of purple over the offending tendril and digits like a squid producing ink. 

Purple like Cyclonus rough skin and they let the snail go, twirling fingers and tendrils in the liquid, forming globs of dark purple black the size of just started seed pearls. She reached, fingers closing over a glob and squished it. Purple that ran over her fingers, disappearing into the depth of the sea and cool blue eyes looked over her. 

“You been following me.” They stated and she felt herself flush, from crown of her nose and down across her chest and shoulder and couldn't deny it. 

“Sorry, sorry, I’m Tailgate.” She flung her hand forward, a trace of purple till over the pad of her thumb and felt horrible and nervous and tried to keep from trembling under the stare. 

“Tracks,” he said, reaching out and brushed a hand against hers in greeting before pulling back. A heavy furled tendril lifted between them, one of the snails resting in the grip, spiny shell poking out slightly. “Would you care to try?” He set the snail down, floating in the forgiving water. 

Tailgate captured it, pulling it close, eyes bright in curiosity and ran her fingers over the bumpy shell, poking and prodding till the snail let loose a plume of purple for her and grinned. She swirled her hand, trying to gather up the ink and it disappeared, thinned by the ocean. 

“Why didn’t it…” She trailed off, noticing that he had moved on. The snail was a distraction. Tailgate pouted and set the snail down, watching it hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tracks showing of a bit of his magic works, there.   
> He's a thread witch. 
> 
> Snails are from the Muricidae Family and known to produce two types of dye, Tyrian purple and Royal blue.


	5. Sea Witches and Blue Holes Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If she had been given a choice on who would perform the ceremony with her, Tracks would have been far down the list. His kind was too frail, himself was emotionally compromised, his work aspect frivolous, and if she was going to be stuck with a kin for two moon phrases before the pathway could be open again, she rather it be one of her mates.

Instead, she was saddled with a kin whose mournful song attracted restless souls in shimmering bait ball of tattered dreams and he was too grief blinded to be aware of any sort of danger. Oil Slick was not a Current Witch, not one of the few that could reach to the dead and guide them onto the sea foam path to be taken where ever they should go. Her main aspect of work dealt with venoms and poisons, coaxing them from sea snakes and snails. 

Oil Slick knew enough to settle the dead, she found some tools left behind from those that had worked in the caverns before and carved into the stone the turning sea foam of the spirit path. She lined the floor with glow stones, making a path to the alter stone and casting a warm glow to the shallow bowl. She hunted, offering kills to the restless spirits and sang the ancient songs of remembrance and slowly trimmed the ghosts that clung in the tunnels, the chambers, the dark waters of the blue holes that led to the ocean or land. 

The ones that returned to the foam were pale fluttering things, battered and barely clinging to their reason to be. That any remembrance was enough and the simple rites drew them from the silvery tattered ball that congregated around Tracks. If she looked out of the corner of her eyes, she only saw the barest glimpse of color, a swatch or red, a smidge of blue or black before the mass covered the kin anew. 

His song cut through the tunnels, swelling and crashing like currents and the mournful calling, grief-stricken and alive. It attracted them, and they amassed like a bloom of jellyfish, waiting at the entrances when he left like jilted lovers 

She watched, hunted, prayed and waited. When the moon was half full, the path would open again and she was going to demand a Current witch to clean out the restless dead of the blue holes before the fluttering spirits found some weak chink in Tracks’ self and slipped inside. 

Oil Slick was not able to deal with possession. There was too much at stake for that to happen and the path demanded them both to enter to stabilize it for others to come through. She wondered faintly where he went during the day and some nights. 

There was other spirits that haunted the blue holes, dark and angry and she did not know their names. Occasionally she dreamed, of strange kin in masks and dripping ichor. Of pressing bodies and frighten stillness and large eyes. Unnatural death had been there and she couldn’t see the possibility of leaving. 

It had been luck that the old work had open a path and brought them here, resonating to the remains of the dark spell casts in the tunnels and it would be a mockery of Raoul’s sacrifice to discard the path because of ancient tattered souls and sleek hunger darkness. 

And in truth, they had lost so many of their own, they couldn’t afford a Kin’s death. Perhaps it was callous of her to be grateful that it had been a two-legger not Kin who volunteered. A new path would mean a second death and luck that it would work. 

A willing sacrifice for love. 

So she kept doing the only thing she could do. Pretended not to see the spirits mass, made sure Tracks ate, and judged his aura when he went out into the sun for cracks. Sang the rites and left offerings and explored the tunnels, mapping the catacombs. Waited, watching the moon as it obtained fullness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current Witches are in charge of funerals and guiding the dead.   
> Sirens believe that a path of foam take their dead to their final resting place.


	6. Faculty for the Station of Ocean Exploration: Part II Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock Out had plans for his day off. Sprawl on his fancy beach chair, rub on some sunscreen, and enjoy the sun while reading his back copies of Fashion Men, 10 Men, and other high rated men’s fashion publications in peace. Not be texting his roommate to bring a tarp, clean towels, and a roller stretcher to load up a rather tattered merfolk he believed to have belonged to pod D.
> 
> Today just wasn’t Knock Out’s day.

Knock Out had plans. Major plans, that involved enjoying the one pleasant thing about the island, the heat and sun and catching up with the civilized world. He had loaded up his favorite beach chair, three of his back copy magazines, he was woefully behind, his sunscreen lotion, and some drinks. A long day out on the beach was nothing without a few alcoholic beverages.

He got more than half way to his spot, a swatch of white sand and free of birds, biting bugs, and other nasty bits of nature. Knock Out abhor nature and he was surrounded by it. His bag dropped in the weedy beach scrub grass and he found himself scrambling for his smartphone.

He had noticed the red first. Blue, white, greys were all a frequent part of the landscape and the red, eye-catching bright and started nerve wracking reaction of ‘possible injury’. The smartphone was to take a picture of his possible patient, if he didn’t manage to frighten him of. 

On the cay’s shore line was a freaking merfolk. Gray and white and bright red of blood but also the expressive eyes and a splash of red rising in a crest from nose upwards. He oozed blood, hunkered in the shallows, hand clamped hard over his side. A shark type of some sort and vaguely Knock Out was sure this one had belonged to pod D.

He found his phone, rapidly unlocked, aimed, and shot a picture. He ran his thumb down his list of contacts hitting BD, and began to rapidly compose a text to his roommate and partner. 

‘How long would it take to bring a tarp, clean towels, and a roller stretcher to my location? This happened, K.O.’ He sent, attaching the pic and sent it off.  
Okay, Breakdown was aware, now what to do with this intriguing… puzzle. Patching up the mer was obvious, at the very least cleaning out the wounds and applying pressure until they stopped bleeding. Evaluate his weight, injuries, and perhaps insert a microchip tracker deep in his skin. If he could get close without spooking him. 

The shallow water made merfolk clumsy and for him to drag himself up nearly onto sand, with his injuries, this was one desperate merfolk. And the claw marks running from deltoid to pectoral suggested that he had been attacked by a pod member. High ranking pod member, possibly even head honcho since the mer was all but beached on the sand. 

Which made things difficult. Following the Animal Welfare Act and Regulations for Merfolk, there was set regulation for holding tanks, medical tanks were more lenient but if they were to keep the mer for any length of time, they would need at least pool of 24 feet horizontal width and six foot deep. Bare minimum and Knock Out didn’t know what the biology geeks had available. 

“Well,” he said finally, slowly approaching the mer. The red eyes were still staring at him, teeth clenched together. A pain reaction, but he wasn’t scooting into the shallows. Resigned? “Hello,” Knock Out said pleasantly, slowly inching forward. 

The gill slits seemed clear on the right side, the left was unknown, Knockout could make out the top three, fine but the mer was clenching just after the third and he couldn’t tell if he had three or four or even remember if it was three or four. 

His phone chirped, and he glanced down, reading the text ‘How do U mng 2 find this? Told Hatchet. On way. C U soon. BD. ‘ 

‘Thank you. KO.’ Knock Out turned back the injured merfolk. “I’m getting you help.” He said calmly. He didn’t know how much the other understood. Not even the arabs and greek sailors who first reported them in 586 AD or the various kings to modern day explores truly bothered to explore their intelligence. The variety of species, anatomy, migratory patterns, and legends of drowned sailors or rescued children. 

The mer hissed, snarling something rapid and sharp and at a depth that he couldn’t reproduce. Okay, then, hostile it was. Knock Out pulled out his phone again, angling it and snapped a second picture, getting a better view of the injuries. 

He hit his contact list, meaning to send it over to Ratchet. He probably should send the information to his boss, before he got into more trouble. A grey hand reached into his vision, tipped with sharp claws and dripping blood and grasp his smart phone, pulling it away. 

“Yes, just steal my phone. Right when I was going to inform my boss of your existent. I’m sure he will be thrilled.” Knock Out muttered, settling into wait. “Just don’t drop it in the water.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chap is inspired by this piece of art by Uniformshark : uniformshark.tumblr.com/image/ 66509854114
> 
> Knock Out Muse is finally starting to behave himself, and this is late
> 
> Hopefully I can manage double drabbles tomorrow.


	7. Faculty for the Station of Ocean Exploration: Part III Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve knew he wasn’t much to look at. He was a skinny, dirty blonde with cheap black frame glasses and all around nondescriptive from his black shoes up to his professional lab coats. What he did know was merkin. He had fell in love with the tales as a child and ate up every single sighting and written account he could find. His passion during childhood spurred him in obtaining an associate degree of applied science in Veterinary Technology and then a bachelor degree in Zoology.
> 
> He was hired on as veterinary assistant and now he was in charge of the day to day monitoring of an actual merkin. Steve couldn't be more thrilled.

The tank the great white shark merkin rested in had been cleaned and clobbered together with filters and a bubbler in a mad rush to make sure the injured kin had a restful place to convalesce. Steve had been babbling in nerves and excitement, making sure the interns were hauling water from the ocean and not cutting corners and pumping it from the reservoirs. 

They were not going to send the mer into shock by being lazy. 

Then Knock Out had scurried in, out of breath and Breakdown followed, carrying a heavy bundled up tarp, the mer’s fin just peeping out the ends, and tired half lidded glowing red eyes just visible in the hood and Steve was in love. 

He had dawdled, torn between making sure they completed the tank and running after the medical team to oversee the treatment. Well, more like hesitantly pipe up his two cents on proper adhesives and suturing. 

Steve wasn't sure if the mer had resigned himself to being poked and prodded or was exhausted. He had not fought as they cleaned and coated his wounds with medical adhesive. Or when they weighed and measured him. He hissed when they took a blood sample but it seemed half-hearted. 

Breakdown was recruited again into lugging the mer to the tank and he had been cranked up, swung over, and slowly lowered into the tank of salt water and fine sand. Steve had watched, heart seemly lodge in his throat as the mer was in the air and swung over to be lowered into the water. 

The shark merkin slid out of the sling and curled about a barrel someone shoved into the tank when he was away to provide some sort of shelter or enrichment. He flared his gills, eyes thin slants, watching them warily. 

Steve hadn't wished to leave. He had lingered despite Ratchet making short work of the interns and finally left when that hard stare landed on him. Ratchet was not his superior, Glit was in charge of the veterinary team. Glit was on one of the ships with a pair of grad students overseeing the capture, tagging, and release of bluefin tuna. Which left Ratchet with the highest authority and well, Steve was not going to argue with Ratchet. 

No one with brain cells argued with Ratchet. 

But on the virtual of Glit being at high seas and Hound not due back for another month as he attended a conference, Steve was in charge of monitoring the merkin’s health and to make a schedule for his everyday care. He was going to write a paper on this, maybe even consider it as his thesis topic.


	8. Press

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyclonus had always supported her, in a silent brooding way. He was upfront, blunt, and while it could be either rude or refreshing, Tailgate loved her mate. She loved it when he sang, bellowing out in his deep voice, passionate and clear. They had been through so much. 
> 
> So, when she had a secret, it pressed on her. It gnawed away and reminded her of every bad choice she had made when she had first joined the pod and lied, lie after lie and finally everything broke open when her life was in danger. She needed to tell him, but it was hard to find a way to bring up that she was following a strange male kin about to listen to him sing.

Tailgate swished her tail, silt rising around her from the nervous little motions. Her mate lounged on the sunken stones, his long muscular body relaxed and she traced his form. Looked over the dark purple skin, jumped from stripe to stripe, up to the twin horns and red eyes that saw through her and everything, and sighed in pleasure. 

How had she gotten so lucky? 

Tailgate gave a soft puff of sound, cursing her indecisiveness and fears and swam over, settling against Cyclonus’ warm side. “Hey, Cyclonus,” she questioned, resting her head between his shoulder blades and rubbed her check against the rough skin. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Yes.” Cyclonus shifted, turning slow and Tailgate curled against his chest, and fingers spread out over his white chest. Cyclonus set his broad hands over her back and she let a soft content sound bubble from her throat. “Does it explain your behavior for the last two lunar phases?” 

Tailgate gave an indiscriminate little noise, choosing instead to listen to the stead beat of his heart and the soft sounds of his gills as they exhaled. She ran her tongue over her lips, nervous and struggling to speak. There is this kin. He sings in a way I never heard. He gave me a snail. It spat purple in my hand. I been following him. I saw him part water and sludge and I want to tell you. 

Say something, anything. “Yes. I…” Tailgate shook her head, pushing up off Cyclonus’ chest, staring him full out, eye to eye. “I saw someone when looking for wreckage and he sang,” she breathe and went on, letting it bubble up in a surge of words. “He sang and it was like how you do but in grief and not battle and I didn’t even know he was kin till he was in the water and I been following him and he knows how to make snails squirt ink and it was purple like the color of your skin and I want to show you. I want you both to meet but Whirl and Ultra, and Rodimus and he doesn’t have a TAIL. He has multiple arms and tendrils and soft skin beached jellyfish, soft and flexible and glowing from blues to white.” 

Tailgate panted, not sure how she got this close to Cyclonus face, where she could make out the bump on his nose and the thin slanted pupils in his eyes. She reached out, stroking the black skin of his cheeks that shadow and gaunt his face. “Wanted to tell you, but didn’t want to.” 

She didn’t want to stop watching the stranger. “Because you might say no, and I don’t want to stop because… because there is just so much to know.” 

She wanted to know how to separate the sea from ink and how to pour that much beauty in her voice and just know why he had appeared out of seemingly no-where.

**Author's Note:**

> Uniformshark's lovely merformer art awoken my craving to actual write again.


End file.
